


capacitance

by fishcola



Series: transistorverse [2]
Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: Corporal Punishment, Graphic Violence, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Name-Calling, Prostitution/Transactional Sex, and unexpected pity, bitter hard-heartedness, nothing here is particularly safe or sane or consensual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 23:16:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19095013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishcola/pseuds/fishcola
Summary: ~transistor chapter 3.5~a scene from the dark side of the mews. a smidge too ugly for the fic proper.people you've been before / that you don't want around anymore / they push, shove, won't bend to your will / i'll keep them still





	capacitance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [highoctane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/highoctane/gifts).



> yeah, i have weird little headcanon scenes between the bars of my own fics. this one got shot down because i was like 'chapter four will be too much of a bummer if they know about this one.' 
> 
> but sometimes someone traipses by and snipes one out of the air with a well-placed comment, and then i'm like well, guess i gotta write it now. lookin' at you, **highoctane**.

**drink up baby, stay up all night**  
**with the things you could do, you won't, but you might,**  
**the potential you'll be, that you'll never see**  
**the promises you'll only make**

 

“ _Ta guele, Travis—_ ”

the sound of her smack resounds through the hall as Griffin passes by.

Griffin hesitates. He’s normally not, like, bonered to see his brother in trouble. But Travis was a fucking _asshole_ to him this week. So he’s kinda interested.

What the fuck did Trav care, how Griff and the new kid were working it out? Griff’d already gotten his comeuppance from the widow. A good sharp nasty fucking. He took it like a man. Why’d Travis have to go and knock the wind out of him for _nothing_ , call him a selfish asshole, bruise up his shoulderblades bangin’ him into a wall. Some _brotherly affection_ , that was.

So maybe Griff’s a little vindictive, yeah, when he sneaks up to the widow’s office to hear what Travis is getting a telling-off for.

“He sure as _hell_ knew, _bordel-de-merde_ I’ve been working with Patrick for a long fucking time!” The way she says Patrick is funny, almost like _Patrique_. _Working with_ is also funny, really, in this context. “The boy’s a fool but he knows better than that. He wouldn’t have said yes without some pretty significant convincing from this son of a _whore…_ ”  

There’s a sob, which catches Griffin’s interest, catches his breath a little. Travis isn’t—he’s not _crying_ , is he…?

“Sorry, ma’am,” Travis says.

His voice is contrite, flat. Well good. The sob wasn’t his, then. Travis doesn’t cry as easy as he used to, of course. Who’s crying, then? Pat? No way. If Pat’s crying that’s pretty wild, Griff doesn’t think he’s _ever_ seen—  

“ _Tais-toi_ ,” there’s a stern sound, and a more stifled sob. It’s hard to hear the words, but the widow’s clearly laying into somebody. The door’s cracked open. It usually is, for scolding or for punishments. The widow doesn’t mind eavesdroppers, not for that.

Griffin _could_ stay and listen, but hell, if it’s Patrick—

the thought kinda makes his stomach turn over.  He prepares to move along, but somewhere in her fierce hissing he catches his own name—

well fuckety fuck _shit_ on a shingle—

if he’s in trouble too he better fuckin’ stay close and find out what the fuck it’s for.

Through the crack in the door he can’t see much. The wood floor, a sliver of desk. No people, although presumably Travis and the widow are in there, and the unknown crier who’s definitely not Pat. It’s probably Jenna? Sounds a little like her. But she usually doesn’t—the widow doesn’t really yell at her, not that much. Got a soft spot, maybe, or just Jenna’s good at convincing.  

Very slowly, Griffin creeps up, angles himself to see more through the crack. First he spots the knees.

They’re bare, hiked up on the seat of a heavy chair, ankles threaded through the back and lashed there securely. The little slender feet are squirming a bit, against their bonds, but clearly held fast. Makes sense, why Trav’s in there, now. Griffin has to draw a smidge closer, though, to figure out who’s getting whipped and why Trav was stupid enough to open his big mouth about it and why the fuck Griffin’s name came up, in all that.

Ah. It’s the new kid. Brian.

He’s sprawled out on the floor on his back. He looks—disheveled, and not just because the widow has her foot on his chest and is leaning over to hiss threats at him. He’s kinda rumpled, like maybe he fought a little going down, or maybe Trav just half-stripped him pretty rough. Shirt’s untucked, bare from the waist-down, hands lashed together and the widow’s holding them over his head. Griff’s too nervous to get close enough to see his face, but he bets it’s pretty pitiful. This’d be his first time, probably. He’s a goody-two-shoes, does everything right, so far. Griff wonders what he’s fucked up.

This… this _can’t_ be about Griffin punching him, can it? No, no. Griffin himself’d only got a rough night of sitting for that, and there’s no way she’d give the kid the worse of it.

But whatever it is, it must be bad. She’s _still_ talking to him, in hushed tones.

He’s pretty, Griff has to admit. All flustered up, belly peeking out from under his shirt, smooth, delicate feet.

“—ou get on your back when _I_ tell— ” Griffin can only catch a smidge of the scolding. “—ou again, and I’ll make Patrick whip you himself—”

Huh. Interesting. Kid got in for a little hanky-panky. With Patrick, maybe. Kinda a surprise.

“Travis, warm him up with ten. Let’s see how sorry it makes him.”

Griffin can’t see his brother, but he knows roughly what this kind of thing looks like. Although Trav doesn’t hit him. He can’t. Trav’s a pretty tough customer, but he can’t do that to his baby brother. The widow understands that, at least.

Although honestly, if Griffin had his druthers he’d rather have Travis do it. Griff’s begged him for it before. Cursed at him, whined. He’d much rather deal with his brother beating the shit out of him than Russ—Russ is sloppy as fuck and it’s a fucking miracle that Griffin can walk at all after his stupid badly-aimed bullshit.

But whatever. Just because Griffin hasn’t been whipped by Travis doesn’t mean he hasn’t seen him work. He knows. How his brother lines up his strike, smooth and careful. How he brings it down with a crack like a gunshot. How the pain blossoms, sharp then numb then burning hot, right in the meat of your arch. How Trav’s got a strong fuckin’ arm, and it makes almost anyone squeal, ‘cept Allegra or Pat. And even them, sometimes. If the widow wants, Trav can pull screaming out of almost anyone.

“Stop wiggling,” Travis mutters.

The feet settle, a little. Just a little. The new kid’s scared as fuck, Griffin figures. He’s shaking like a leaf, trembles so fierce they reach his sweet little thus-far-unblemished toes. He’s not begging, though, which is pretty ballsy. Griffin _definitely_ begged for mercy, the first time, and the second time, and the third time too, and he’d beg for mercy again today if he got unlucky.

Maybe Brian’s stupid.

Or he’s just not used to people paying any mind to his begging. Maybe it’s foreign to him, the idea that begging could matter at all, could figure into the calculus of how much he gets hurt.

The first crack comes down hard.

Griffin shifts, to watch the kid’s face instead of the feet. He doesn’t like to see the strikes. It’s bad, to see the screams and the writhing, but it feels less awful to see Brian’s face in pain than to see the impact, to risk the chance of seeing his brother’s face while he does it.

“Stop fucking moving,” Travis barks out. He sounds annoyed. Griff spots in that tone a little note of guilt, but no one else would ever notice, when Trav’s putting rough anger so frontwards in his tone. “If you make me miss I’ll break your toes.”

“S-sorry,” comes the mess on the floor. Brian’s really pathetic, but he’s holding it together more or less. Getting the formula. Cry, beg, apologize, crawl away. Look sufficiently like a whipped dog and snivel your way on home.

The cracks keep coming, up to ten. Then the widow’s at his throat again, talking to him, pressing down.

“ _Please_ —I didn’t know—”

“Shut the fuck up,” she slaps him hard, holds his head to do it, to make sure he stays put. “Your apologies aren’t worth shit. You’re a fucking liar, too. You wanted his cock, and you talked him into it. Say it’s true.”

“I did,” he sobs, and either he’s smart enough to lie or it’s the truth. Griffin feels a little bad about that. He knows why Brian would go to Pat. Kid wanted an easy first time, and Pat’s a big fuckin’ softy, and he’s not gonna lose his temper. Griff’s actually _never_ seen Pat lose his temper, come to think, even though they’ve been working together a long time and there’s plenty around here to lose your temper over.

Griffin doesn’t restrain himself like that. What’s the fucking point. He’s gonna get his ass beat, either way, so he might as well fuckin’ shout when he feels like it. Pat and he have never seen eye-to-eye, about that.

“Don’t tell me lies, boy,” she bites, and she’s so close to his face, he must be feeling her breath. “ _Patrique_ might buy your shit, but I do not, me. You wanted his dick in your ass, and you made it happen, _n’est-ce pas_? Filthy little cock whore, you are.”

He continues to cry, but god bless, at least he has the sense to nod yes. A stupider kid would’ve debated that. She wouldn’t like that. She likes to tell you what you are.

“I’m going to have Griffin fuck you,” she growls, and he startles a little at his name, though she’s not looking at him—even if she looked straight up at the door, she’d probably miss him, he’s in the dark— “and a few _other_ boys besides. If you really want to learn that’ll teach you very much quickly.”

This is her style, the widow. She likes to threaten big, then make her girls talk her down. Use their charms to persuade her for mercy. Griffin hates it, but he’d grudgingly admit it’s pretty good practice. Bargaining from a position of weakness. Crying and pleading, saying _no no no, please, no, i’ll do anything—let me make it up to you—_ blah blah blah, all that shit. It teaches you real quick how to hustle yourself out of a tight spot. Griffin usually whines and fights so bad that she decides it’s not worth it. Allegra trades her way to fucking, usually. Pat just talks real, real fuckin’ fast, and sometimes makes her laugh.

It’s a nasty kind of practice, but it might save your life someday.

The kid hasn’t got any game yet, though. Just lies there, and squirms, and cries softly.

She presses a knee on his chest, pushing for that reaction. “How much practice do you need, bitch. I could have a dozen guys fuck you tonight, if you really want to get loosened up. Think you can handle that?”

A strained sound, more crying, but no begging. No bartering.

Jesus, maybe he _is_ stupid.

“Hmmph,” the widow grunts, frustrated. “Trav, give him another dozen. I don’t think he’s sorry enough.”

Travis hesitates a moment. Griffin can hear him start to say something, then stop. He knows why. Another dozen’s pretty rough, ‘specially for a first time. The kid’s already wailing and writhing at the first blow. Trav has to keep pausing, waiting for him to settle down, so it doesn’t fuck up his aim. The whole time, the widow stays with her knee on his chest, stroking down his face, wiping away tears as they come.

“How’s that feeling,” she trills.

“Hurts, ma’am,” he gasps out, still teary-wet, but pretty coherent, all things considered.

“You’re pretty when you cry, boy,” she strokes his cheeks. “You gotta learn how to lean into that.”

He wails at another strike, bucks ineffectively, and she wends her hand in his hair, tweaks his head back and to the side so hard he moans. Oh, she’s enjoying this. This kinda thing gets her horny. If he doesn’t turn this ship around _real_ quick she might even fuck him.

It makes him a little sick, how hard she’s going after the kid, just for this, just ‘cause Griffin lost his temper, hit him too hard. He doesn’t feel guilty, exactly, but he knows why Pat’d be a more appealing choice. Griff’s never fucked Pat before, but Legs has, and Jenna did too. She was made to, actually, back in the day, and she cried in fear because he always had that _look_ , like he might beat your ass and he might be stronger than you thought. Legs slapped her and told her to stop blubbering and be grateful. _Pat’s the nicest bastard in this whole bloody hellhole, Jenna, so stop fucking crying, he’ll go real goddamn slow._

Apparently this was a pretty fair assessment, because Jenna advised Ash to do the same, when she came in. Ash didn’t go for it though. She picked Griffin instead. _Don’t give me that romantic bullshit,_ she said flatly. _Just fuck me and then tell the widow I was good, all right?_ An easy deal, for both of them.

But yeah, so it makes sense that this fey little first-timer wanted some coddling, and Patrick’s the right guy to pick, so why the widow’s being so _brutal_ about it makes Griffin curious.

He’s sucking ragged gasps of breath, now, and she’s tapping his tear-stained cheek.

“Beg me for mercy, baby,” she says, in a softer tone. “Or we’re gonna be here all night. It’s so pretty on you.”

The kid _immediately_ turns over into real, raw weeping, pleading, begging. Pitiful, it’s pitiful, the snotty little requests— _oh please ma’am i can’t take it—_ and the shattered desperate promises— _please, please, I’ll never do it again, I’m so sorry—_ and the frantic bargaining— _I’ll do anything, anything—_ it’s good, that. Maybe he’s stupid, but at least he knows how to turn on the waterworks.

Griffin lets out a breath of relief when she holds up a hand to stop Travis. He’s afraid it’s maybe too loud.

“We’re done here, Travvie,” she says, sharp. “He’s sorry enough for now. Go get your brother so we can finish up, here.”

Well, shit. Griff ducks back a few paces, quiet, quick, enough that Travis won’t open the door straight out into him, ducks just behind a corner. It’ll be abundantly clear that he was eavesdropping but hopefully Trav won’t open his big goddamn mouth.

 

* * *

 

 

Eventually, after an acceptable amount of time, punctuated by brotherly glaring and silently-mouthed anger, Trav grabs Griffin roughly by the arm and drags him in.

The kid’s standing now, such as it is. Cowering a little, but upright, untied, his upper arm tight in the widow’s bruising grip.  

“Griffin, baby,” the widows says sweetly. “We already had a little chat about Brian, no?”

“Yes ma’am,” Griffin says, immediately, looking at her and not at the little hanging head, still dripping with tears. “Sorry I was a little rough with him.”

“I think he forgives you, now. Don’t you, baby?”

“Yes ma’am,” he snivels. He does a good job matching Griffin’s tone. Quick learner.

“Why don’t you ask Griffin nicely? If he’ll take care of you maybe we’ll say you’re done with your lesson.”

Brian throws his head up, tousled hair flying everywhere, and finds Griffin’s gaze. “Please, Griff, let me try again. I’ll be good this time. Please.”

It isn’t as desperate as it should be, the begging. Brian’s gaze isn’t pleading, really, and it twists Griffin’s stomach, how flat it is. Resigned. Like he doesn’t think Griffin’s gonna say yes. Like he figures he’s gonna have to take something worse, and he’s just trying to get ready to deal with whatever that is.

“What’s in it for me,” Griffin grunts, like it’s an inconvenience, because he’s not a fucking idiot. He knows how the game works.

“I’ll—” the kid pauses, heartbreakingly, as if he really doesn’t know what he can offer. Griffin knows his tips are already promised to Pat. He’s got pretty much nothing, like anybody around here, or nothing that Griffin couldn’t have already stolen. He can’t sell his body, the widow owns that.

Fuck, kid, come up with _something,_  literally _anything_ , so that Griffin can just say yes and save face and they can both get out of this hellish office.

“—I can sing for you? I’m good at—at singing. If you like music.”

Oh thank God. “Been a while since I heard any decent music. Are you good?”

The kid raises his chin a little, looks at him hard. A little disbelieving, maybe. That he’s gonna be let off the hook this easy. _Fuck_ , he must really think Griffin’s a scumbag.

But for all he might be stupid, or weepy, or weak, or new, the kid’s got something going for him, in showmanship. He straightens up as best he can on his little wrecked feet and picks something mournful-sweet that works even when your voice is sick with crying.

“... _fly the ocean in a silver plane… see the jungle when it’s wet with rain… just remember till you’re home again… you belong to me…”_

Griffin feels his jaw drop open like a goddamn idiot. The widow smiles. “Pretty, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, all right,” Griff shoves out, quick and stupid. “I’d—we can negotiate.”

“Thank you Griffin,” she smiles. “Take him, then.”

She shoves the little stumbling body at him and he catches it before he falls.

 

* * *

 

The kid splays himself, loose-limbed, on Griffin’s bed, and says in a small voice, “If you want me to wash up first, I can. Or I can sing first. Whatever you like.”

It makes Griffin scowl, that.

“I’m not gonna fuck you right now,” he roughs out. “So sit easy, all right? You gotta put some shoes on, though. Or your feet’ll swell.”

“Okay,” he says, swinging his knees over the edge of the bed and making to get up.

“I’ll get it for you,” Griffin says, quickly. “Just—just don’t walk. I’ll get it.”

Brian murmurs his thanks as Griffin steals away, retreats through the pile of girls to find the kid’s sneakers. They’re worn as hell and laceless, much-bedraggled basketball trainers like Griffin used to have, when he was young. He brings them, dumps them on the bed next to the now-sitting Brian, who presses them onto his feet with an expression of pain and gratitude.

“Lie down,” Griffin orders curtly. “Keep them up high. If you’ll lucky you’ll be able to walk tomorrow—but probably not. She really—” he swallows. He doesn’t want to give the game away entirely, out himself for eavesdropping. But maybe it doesn’t matter. “She really did a number on you, huh?”

“I stole from her, apparently,” Brian murmurs.   

Griffin winces. Yeah, that one’s a tough pill to swallow.

“When do you want to fuck me, then,” Brian asks, softly. “If not now, I’ll—um. I’ve got work tomorrow. She’s booked me, um. All weekend. My day off’s Tuesday.”  

 _Shit_ , that’s rough.

“I can sing anytime,” Brian continues, “but I’m told I’m not supposed to fuck before I work. I think she—” he hesitates. “I think she wants you to do it now. But if you want to—to wait—I might be able to explain—”

Yeah, that nervous tone’s about right. He’s goddamn terrified that if he doesn’t do what he’s supposed to she’s gonna do something _worse_. Griffin runs his palm over his face and makes a stupid offer.

“Shit. I just—do you _really_ need the practice? Or can we just. Not. And say we did.”

Brian looks at him very hard. His eyes are _big_ , behind those coke-bottles. “Risky.”

“Yeah, well.” Griffin shrugs, raises a hand. “Listening to you scream didn’t exactly make my dick hard, alright?”

“Good.” Brian sighs, lets a breath out. Relief, seems like.

“Sorry I clocked you,” Griffin grunts, and regrets it the moment it’s out. “I could see that—you’re good, you little fuck. And you’re cute.” He pauses. “Like I used to be.”

Brian nods slowly, a little shy. He might be stupid, but he’s clearly paying attention to this, because even a week’s long enough to know that Griffin doesn’t say shit like that, doesn’t make apologies, doesn’t let bygones be bygones, doesn’t play _nice._ It’s a stupid thing to do around here and he feels stupid for doing it. He’s already pissed at himself. What the fuck is he doing, being nice to this brat who is certainly fucking here to replace him, sooner or later. What is he doing, helping the kid out for fucking _free_.

Brian brushes back his hair. “I can suck you off again, if you want. Since you think I’m good.”

Griffin lets out a breath of relief, lets his dick twitch. “In the morning, maybe. If the offer still stands.”

“I’m sleeping here, then?”

“Seems like. Russ’s out for the evening. No one’ll know what we did or didn’t do. Unless you rat me out.”

“I’d get it worse,” Brian says, and scooches over, makes room for Griffin in the bed. He climbs in reluctantly. It’s— _weird_ , surprising, when Brian nuzzles up next to him, drapes an arm easily across his waist. He hadn’t expected that. That the new kid would be willing to touch him.

“You would,” Griffin cautions. “So don’t fucking snitch. You’re good. She’s gonna hold you to a high standard.”

Brian shivers. He can feel the sensation roll through the whole body, shoulders down to ankles. “ _God_ I hope I don’t fuck up.”

“You will,” Griff says, grimly. “But she’ll keep you in good enough shape to work, remember. So there’s that, at least.”

“At least,” Brian agrees, and sighs. “Thanks for being decent, Griffin.”

“Don’t fucking get used to it,” he grumbles.

 

 **drink up, baby, look at the stars**  
**and I'll kiss you again, between the bars**  
**where I'm seeing you there, with your hands in the air**  
**waiting to finally be caught**

 

**Author's Note:**

> alternate soundtrack: garth brooks friends in low places. yeah im weird.


End file.
